


Privation

by nightcourthighlordrhysand



Series: Feysand [4]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff, Post-Canon, at least as far as ACOMAF help, feyre and cassian brotp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-27 23:33:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10819077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightcourthighlordrhysand/pseuds/nightcourthighlordrhysand
Summary: Feyre is sick, Rhys isn't in Velaris, and Cassian plays nursemaid





	Privation

**Author's Note:**

> yay another one shot from tumblr :)

Early morning sunlight speared through a split in the dark velvety curtains that fended off the winter chill.  Still sluggish from sleep, Feyre flipped onto her back, eyes squinted as she swiped at her embarrassingly drool damp face.  Scrubbing the sleep from her bleary vision, she fought to swallow against the swollen feeling in her throat, before letting out an almighty sneeze that racked her achy body with sharp pains from her cough weary diaphragm to her tight back muscles, a gift from her dehydrated body.

Scratching her scalp messily, she turned habitually to find Rhysand, only to recall he was currently on a week long visit with the Illyrians, observing - and ensuring implementation of - their new gender inclusive training programs.  She’d intended to accompany him, but her visit to the mortal realm with Cassian and Nesta had taken longer than expected, and Rhysand had _promised_ things would be fine without her there for this trip.

Normally she would’ve put up a fight, but as soon as she entered the townhouse in Velaris, her body had essentially rebelled against her; sinuses filled, body racked with chills, raw throat, and a complete inability to keep any sustenance down beyond chamomile tea with honey, plain broth, and if she was lucky, bland crackers.

So far, Feyre had managed to camouflage her symptoms over the bond, hoping to avoid alerting Rhysand’s territorial fae male instincts, which would inevitably lead to a frantic, and needless, winnow home.  Not that the selfish part of her didn’t _want_ him here with her, but her reasonable High Lady of the Night Court knew how important it was for him to stay.  Plus Cassian had taken it upon himself to nurse her back to health.

As if summoned by her thoughts, the General breezed into her and Rhysand’s room, heavily laden tray in hand, “Welcome to the land of the living _High Lady_.”

“If I had any strength left in my muscles I’d smack that smirk off your face,” Feyre groaned, pressing a hand to her forehead, in the vain hope of staving off her growing migraine.

Cassian’s laugh rumbled in his chest as he took three long strides toward the empty table carelessly dragged to her bedside after realizing her already book covered nightstand would not suffice for her health care remedies, and slid a steaming cup of what smelled like black tea onto the smooth surface, along with various vials filled with questionable looking potions.

“How’s my patient today?”

Feyre narrowed her eyes, “I told you I can take care of myself.”

Handing her the first of the five vials, Cassian frowned, “Says the female who just told me she was too weak to smack a smirk from my face.”

Grumbling she downed the purplish liquid with a grimace. 

“Although it is a pretty strong smirk,” Cassian mused exchanging the empty one for the shimmering blue rounded bottle.

Tipping her head back and letting the thick sludge slide down her worn throat, already feeling the numbness settle in, Feyre adjusted her pillows, sitting up against the headboard, “My throat feels - felt -  like I swallowed gravel and I can’t breathe through my nose.”

“And you don’t look too smashing either,” Cassian drawled, hazel eyes dancing with mischief.

“I’m not going to be sick forever, and I’m still a Daemati,” Feyre shot back, reaching for the other potions and swallowing them as quickly as possible, pungent flavors mixing unpleasantly on her tongue.

Anticipating the bad taste, Cassian is waiting to hand her the tea he prepared, now cooled to the perfect temperature.  As the warm liquid slips down her swollen throat, Feyre lets out a satisfied moan, “Oh.  That’s good.”

Cassian smiles and pats her knee in an unexpected show of affection, “I’m glad Feyre.”

Humming as she takes another cautious sip, Feyre settles the cup back into it’s matching blue and gold china saucer on her lap, “You haven’t contacted Rhys, right?”

Wincing, Cassian nodded, “My lips are sealed.  When he finds out you may need to return the favor and nurse me back to health.”

Smirking around her tea, Feyre laughs, “I think you have the wrong Archeron sister.”

Noting the uncharacteristic softening around his eyes at her allusion to her eldest sister, Feyre complied when Cassian brushed past the topic, “Rhys should be back in Velaris today, assuming all went to plan.”

Heart thumping at his words, Feyre’s chapped lips spread in a genuine smile as she slid her half empty tea onto the nighstand on top of one of her current reads. 

She waved away the proffered crackers and settled back into her pillows, night clothes bunching uncomfortably, but she was too exhausted to care, “I think I’ll sleep again.”

With a frown, Cassian nodded, patting her head in a brotherly manner as he gathered the empty containers, leaving behind the crackers with a pointed look.

“Thanks Cass.”

He offered a curt bob of his head, knocking twice on the door frame before pulling the door closed until just a sliver of the hall was visible beneath Feyre’s increasingly heavy eyelids.

Some undetermined amount of time later, she woke to a dimmer room and the door clicking closed.  Groaning, she smashed her face into the fever heated pillow, sweat clammy skin sticking to the silken cotton, “Cassian is it time for those ghastly potions already.”

“I don’t particularly like hearing you say another male’s name in bed, Feyre darling,” came the familiar purr.

Sitting up far too rapidly for her light headed state, Feyre slumped back against the rumpled pillows, “ _Rhys_.”

Smile not faltering, Feyre’s eyes drank in his wind mussed appearance, inky locks free around his chiseled face, violet eyes still slightly wild as they always were after a flight, but clouded by something else - _worry_.  She could feel it now, thrumming down the bond like a steady echo of her name: _FeyreFeyreFeyre._

Rather sluggishly, she patted the space beside her, and Rhysand was there in a moment; large, warm hands encompassing her own, “Feyre, I flew part of the way home.  I could’ve been home _hours_ ago.”

“Yes.  You sitting here while i drooled all over myself in my sleep would’ve really made a difference to my recovery,” Feyre drawled, lifting the back of his hand to her cheek affectionately.  “Besides, Cassian had my care well in hand.”

Coal black clouds of night seeped from his being as his jaw clenched, “I’ll be dealing with _Cassian_ later.”

Rolling her eyes, Feyre brushed a thumb over his cheekbone, “Oh don’t take it out on him.  I begged.”

“Well he has to know there are competing offers,” Rhysand shot back, although his expression softened considerably as he scooted closer along the bed, eyes darting over her to take full stock of her appearance.  Even if she couldn’t feel his worry over the bond, his eyes made it clear this was hardly a critiquing gaze.

Their silent reverie was interrupted by a short knock at the door quickly followed by the aforementioned Illyrian entering with a tray laden similarly to his entrance earlier, with the addition of a steaming bowl of what Feyre surmised was some sort of broth, and a small plate of crackers.

Before she could offer a smile, Rhysand let out a low growl, eyes narrowing at his general who paused only briefly, face tightening almost imperceptibly, never breaking stride as he proceeded to enter the room, rounding the expansive bed to set his burden down.

“Rhys.”

“ _Cassian_ ,” the High Lord purred dangerously.

There were few who could face that imperious glare and suppress a shudder, and even fewer who could manage to match it with one of their own, but Feyre had learned long ago that the brothers liked matching wits as well as fists and neither was likely to yield an inch, let alone surrender.  And so in an effort to impose a truce, she slid her fingers between Rhysand’s clenched ones, stroking the back of his hand with her thumb, “I _asked_ him to wait.  And now I just want you here, not off comparing wingspans with Cassian over me.”

Pausing for a hacking cough that drew a furrow between Rhysand’s brows, Feyre turned to Cassian, “You on the other hand, should get yourself off to a certain hot tempered Archeron who’s probably working off some inner rage sparring with Mor.  I’m sure you can find _another_ method.”

Before she could decide if an overdone lascivious wink was necessary to get her point across, Cassian’s brows shot up into his dark hairline, hazel eyes turning molten as he stared unseeingly, apparently lost in some reverie.

Feyre let out a snicker as Rhys stood, ushering his friend out the door, “Out.  You’re drooling on the carpet.”

The door clicked shut beneath Rhysand’s broad hand, with slightly more force than necessary, but Feyre took a minor tantrum over losing him to ritualized fae male strutting followed by a wrestling match with Cassian.

“You can spar with him tomorrow.  Work out your aggression.”

He doesn’t answer beyond a quiet hum that she knows from experience rumbles through his chest in the best way, as he strides back toward her bedside, pulling the table and one of the Illyrian chairs over, slipping into the latter with cat-like grace.

After she dutifully doses herself up on her various potions, Feyre settles back against the pillows dutifully fluffed by an adorably hovering Rhysand.

“I’m sorry.  It’s just my instinct.  The bond.  It aches if I don’t-”

Feyre smirks, “A likely story.  Seems to _me_ like you’re trying to introduce the idea of some doctor and patient fun in the bedroom.”

“Anything you like Feyre, darling.”

Her eyes sparked with mischief, but Rhys cut her off, “ _After_ you eat _and_ your fever breaks.”

Feyre nodded glumly, slowly sipping spoonfuls of the plain soup and occasionally dunking one of the pale, lightly salted crackers as she prompted Rhysand to fill her in on his trip.  After she had satisfied his standards for sustenance and the empty bowls, dishes, and silverware had been swept away with a careless flick of his wrist, she tugged him toward her, “I’m cold.  Come up here with me.”

Placing a lingering kiss to her forehead, Rhysand complied, wrapping his long, lithe body around hers, fingers rubbing her chilled ones, “Just for body heat, until you warm up.”

Twisting in his embrace to face him, Feyre chuckled, “I’ve heard _that_ before.”

His violet eyes darkened as his mind wandered back to the cramped and cold room in the damp, forgotten inn.  Slowly, Feyre worked her way up the column of his neck, placing warm, open mouthed kisses along the way to his ear, “I’m feeling _much_ better.“

“Cauldron, Feyre.  Don’t tempt me.”

“Don’t be a _spoil sport_ ,” Feyre countered breathily, biting his earlobe playfully.

Rhysand groaned, “You need to _rest_.”

Mouthing her way across his jaw, Feyre murmured, “I’ve been resting, _prick_.”

“Such sweet nothings.”

“You like it.”

Rhys let out a low groan, flipping their positions so he was cradled between her thighs, face hovering a breath away from hers, “Too much.”

Without another word, he ducked closer, but Feyre pressed a palm to his broad chest, halting his descent, “You’re- you’ll- I’m ah- contagious.”

Warm breath fanning across her cheekbone, Rhysand murmured into her ear, “I can think of somewhere else I’d like to kiss where that won’t be a problem.”


End file.
